Adelaide Crapsey Quotes

And if the many sayings of the wise Teach of submission I will not submit But with a spirit all unreconciled Flash an unquenched defiance to the stars.

Sun and wind and beat of sea, Great lands stretching endlessly... Where be bonds to bind the free? All the world was made for me!

Sea-foam And coral! Oh, I'll Climb the great pasture rocks And dream me mermaid in the sun's Gold flood.

Seen on a night in November How frail Above the bulk Of crashing water hangs, Autumn, evanescent, wan, The moon.

When I was girl by Nilus stream I watched the deserts stars arise; My lover, he who dreamed the Sphinx, Learned all his dreaming from eyes. I bore in Greece a burning name, And I have been in Italy Madonna to a painter-lad, And mistress to a Medici. And have you heard (and I have heard) Of puzzled men with decorous mien, Who judged - the wench knew far too much - And burnt her on the Salem green?

Why have I thought the dew Ephemeral when I Shall rest so short a time, myself, On earth?

Listen . . . With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees And fall.

With night's Dim veil and blue I will cover my eyes, I will bind close my eyes that are So weary.

As it Were tissue of silver I'll wear, O Fate, thy grey, And go mistily radiant, clad Like the moon.

Why do You thus devise Evil against her?' 'For that She is beautiful, delicate; Therefore.

Still as On windless nights The moon-cast shadows are, So still will be my heart when I Am dead.

Scarlet the poppies Blue the corn-flowers, Golden the wheat. Gold for the Eternal: Blue for Our Lady: Red for the five Wounds of her Son.

In your Curled petals what ghosts Of blue headlands and seas, What perfumed immortal breath sighing Of Greece.

But me They cannot touch, Old age and death. The strange And ignominious end of old Dead folk!

I make my shroud, but no one knows -- So shimmering fine it is and fair, With stitches set in even rows, I make my shroud, but no one knows. In door-way where the lilac blows, Humming a little wandering air, I make my shroud and no one knows, So shimmering fine it is and fair.

If it Were lighter touch Than petal of flower resting On grass, oh still too heavy it were, Too heavy!

Wouldst thou find my ashes? Look In the pages of my book; And as these thy hand doth turn, Know here is my funeral urn.

Dost thou Not feel them slip, How cold! how cold! the moon's Thin wavering finger-tips, along Thy throat?

Just now, Out of the strange Still dusk . . . as strange, as still . . . A white moth flew . . . Why am I grown So cold?

Pain ebbs, And like cool balm, An opiate weariness Settles on eye-lids, on relaxed Pale wrists.

Look up . . . From bleakening hills Blows down the light, first breath Of wintry wind . . . look up, and scent The snow!

The old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that I Should weep?

Three grey women walk with me Fate and Grief and Memory. My fate brought grief; my grief must be With me through Eternity, Such thy power, memory. Three grey women walk with me.

And the centurion who stood by said: Truly this was a son of God. Not long ago but everywhere I go There is a hill and a black windy sky. Portent of hill, sky, day's eclipse I know; Hill, sky, the shuddering darkness, these am I. The dying at His right hand, at His left, I am - the thief redeemed and the lost thief; I am the careless folk; I those bereft, The Well-Belov'd, the women bowed in grief. The gathering Presence that in terror cried, In earth's shock in the Temple's veil rent through, I; and a watcher, ignorant, curious-eyed, I the centurion who heard and knew

Little Sister Rose-Marie, Will thy feet as willing-light Run through Paradise, I wonder, As they run the blue skies under, Willing feet, so airy-light? Little Sister Rose-Marie Will thy voice as bird-note clear Lift and ripple over Heaven As its mortal sound is given, Swift bird-voice, so young and clear? How God will be glad of thee, Little Sister Rose-Marie!

Thou hast Drawn laughter from A well of secret tears And thence so elvish it rings, -mocking And sweet.

Is it as plainly in our living shown, By which way the wind hath blown?

Oh Lady, let the sad tears fall To speak thy pain, Gently as through the silver dusk The silver rain. Oh, let thy bosom breathe its grief In such soft sigh As hath the wind in gardens where Pale roses die.

No guile? Nay, but so strangely He moves among us. . Not this Man but Barabbas! Release to us Barabbas!

Reap, reap the grain and gather The sweet grapes from the vine; Our Lord's mother is weeping, She hath nor bread nor wine; She is weeping. The Queen of Heaven, She hath nor bread nor wine.

Ere the horne'd owl hoot Once and twice and thrice there shall Go among the blind brown worms News of thy great burial; When the pomp is passed away, 'Here's a King,' the worms shall say.

Not thou, White rose, but thy Ensanguined sister is The dear companion of my heart's Shed blood.

If illness' end be health regained then I Will pay you, Asculapeus, when I die.

Peter stands by the gate, And Michael by the throne. 'Peter, I would pass the gate And come before the throne.' 'Whose spirit prayed never at the gate In life nor at the throne, In death he may not pass the gate To come before the throne:' Peter said from the gate; Said Michael from the throne.

On Seeing Weather-Beaten Trees Is it as plainly in our living shown, By slant and twist, which way the wind hath blown?